


the worst way to miss someone

by zayniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, artist!zayn, high school AU sort of?, idk where liam and louis are, niall is zayn's muse, smoker!niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayniall/pseuds/zayniall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn stands up and brushes away the imaginary dirt from his trousers, and he thinks that maybe the burning in his throat is the feeling of betrayal, but he doesn't have an explanation for the searing pain ripping through his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the worst way to miss someone

**Author's Note:**

> NOTICE: this fic can also be read on Livejournal under the title "Cadmium Yellow and Cobalt Blue" (link: http://m.livejournal.com/read/user/givemeziall) WE ARE THE SAME PERSON, I HAVEN'T STOLEN THE FIC. I literally have no idea how to use LJ because I'm a stupid shithead. My friend put the fic up on there for me before I got my AO3 invite, and I don't know how to edit it, so I just left it. I didn't like the title for the fic on LJ, so I changed it on here. But, I guess, thanks for the concern and it's great that someone would be so caring as to report if my fic had been copied, but there's no need. Givemeziall is me, I am them (me). Sorry for causing any worry and leaving things unclear!!! 
> 
> This is my first fic and I suppose I'm happy with it. A little self-conscious, but still happy. If you read it; thank you, it really means a lot.
> 
> Title taken from the quote "The worst way to miss someone is to have them sitting next to you and know you can never have them." 
> 
> I don't remember who said it. Maybe's it anonymous. I found it on the internet.

Mr Kershaw's eyes are three shades darker than his mahogany desk. His hair is ash, sprinkled with snow and his skin is cracked dirt beneath the sun. Zayn has always thought of him as complex; he plays with his hands and bounces his knee, and looks as though he knows things that he shouldn't.

If Zayn had met Mr Kershaw in the street, he would never have thought of him as a teacher. Business man, maybe. Bar tender, more likely. It's strange because Mr Kershaw has authority over everybody, tells people what to do, runs the school, yet Zayn is almost certain that his marriage is failing, his kids are spinning out of control, and that he drinks away his worries every Friday night.

"You're failing every class you take, apart from art. Do you understand that, Zayn? You're letting your life slip through your fingers because you simply can't be bothered, because you've apparently got better things to do. You owe a years worth of homework and essays, Zayn. Just because you have a certain way with a paintbrush doesn't mean you can drop everything else, do you get that? Dreams will only get you so far. Grades however; they get you along. You need to get your act together, pay attention in lessons and start acting like you care a little more about your future. I want the homework, the whole years worth, completed and handed into me by the end of this year, or you won't graduate. Do you understand?"

Zayn smiles because Mr Kershaw is telling him to stop watching his life fall apart, when in the end he's just as guilty as Zayn. Instead of saying this, Zayn nods and stands up, leaving the door open behind him as he makes his exit because he's been in Mr Kershaw's office enough times to know that he hates the door being left open.

If he had to paint Mr Kershaw, he'd use bold reds, oranges and blacks. Mix them together until they create the image of a shell of a man, circled in broken promises, deceit and lies.

**

The roof is always somewhere he goes for an escape. A hide out, really. Whenever he skips lessons, Zayn goes up there, just sits and watches the world. Sometimes he paints of draws, but most of the time he just observes.

One day though, everything changes.

Cadmium yellow hair captures the sunlight and traps it within its strands, creates a halo of gold around his head. His skin is white marble, smooth and clear, mixed with the smallest tint of pastel pink. Tendrils of grey smoke escape from his crimson lips, dance and twirl into the air and it looks dirty next to him, unclean. You wouldn't think he was a smoker, but he contently inhales the cigarette, exhales the pollution.

Cobalt blues glances over his shoulder and connect with Zayn's raw siennas, and they just watch for a while. Inhaling once more, he flicks the butt over the side of the building and it plummets to the ground, into the awaiting jaws of the evergreen bush below.

"You're that kid who never does his homework." His voice is thickened by a strong Irish accent, but its soft and inviting like the slices of golden sun sewn into his eyelids, dusting his cheekbones with light every time he blinks.

"Yeah." Zayn's voice sounds rough and worn compared to his and he clears his throat to even his tone out.

"Why?" He doesn't sound demanding, he isn't expecting a valid reason for Zayn's lack of care, and he doesn't want Zayn to provide him with answers that he doesn't even know himself. He's just asking, just curious, and if Zayn responded with a simple 'because' he was pretty sure he'd just shrug and accept that.

So Zayn gives him an answer. The reason that he thinks is the reason, even though he's not too sure. "I don't see the point in setting yourself up for the high life, working hard to get good grades and succeed, when you'll probably be disappointed anyway. Everybody has one main dream they want to achieve, one thing they want to do or be, and most of the time it seems impossible, so they brush it aside and forget about it, settle for something less. I don't want to do that. I like painting. It's relaxing and easy, like drawing your memories so you can relive them every day. I want to be an artist, nothing more, so I don't need Maths, or English or Science or History because they're all irrelevant. I don't know where I'm really going with my life because art is under-appreciated these days and its hard to make it big, but I refuse to settle for some fucking second-best job that will bore the shit out of me for the rest of my life."

Throughout Zayn's explanation, the boy listens, never interrupts, and when he's finished, he nods. "Too many of us bend over backwards for everybody else and never really think about ourselves and what we want. You're a good kid." He smiles at Zayn, and Zayn's sure that his heart stutters and restarts in a new rhythm.

It hits Zayn then that they don't even know each others names, but the boys gets him and that's alright.

"I'm Zayn."

"I'm Niall."

Just like that, something new begins.

The roof has always been Zayn's roof, nobody else ever went up there, nobody even knew about it, but Niall is easy to talk to and he shares his last cigarette with Zayn, and so they sit together with their feet dangling over the edge of the building, and Zayn doesn't mind sharing his roof. Niall tells Zayn about himself and Zayn tells Niall about himself, and Zayn forgets that there's an empty seat in History where he's supposed to be sat, forgets the disappointed look his mum will give him, forgets the stern glare that Mr Kershaw will direct at him in the morning.

Instead Zayn thinks about colours and paint and how the image of Niall glowing in the afternoon sun would make a lovely piece of art.

**

The music's too loud and the beer tastes horrible, but the constant flash of red, blue, green hypnotises Zayn into staying just a bit longer. The scene is colourful and dark all at the same time and the beat of the song playing vibrates through the floor and echoes in his rib-cage. It's warm and he feels just a little dizzy so he pushes through the pack of sweating bodies, out into the cool night air.

Leaning against the wall, Zayn tilts his head back and watches the sky. The moon is still and beautiful, dark and mysterious, and the stars flicker gently in and out of view. It's black outside and maybe he should feel threatened or at least worried because he's at a stranger's house with a whole load of people he doesn't know. They're drinking violent liquids that make you do things you'd never normally do but won't remember anyway, and he's pretty sure the majority of them are taking illegal substances. He's not threatened though, or worried. He feels... content, calm even. It's silly because Zayn hates parties, avoids them in any way he can, but tonight he was bored, fed up, and felt like doing something he shouldn't.

"It'd make a lovely painting, wouldn't it?" Niall's voice breaks the silence and his thoughts and Zayn glances over at him as he leans on the wall beside him.

Zayn's eyes, burnt sienna now, darkened by alcohol and lethargy, return to gazing at the moon and he smiles happily for the first time today.

"Yeah, it would."

Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through his veins like fire and making him brave, or maybe it's because he's gotten so caught up in the world of simply not caring anymore that he thinks it's okay for one more of his secrets to be revealed, but Zayn tells Niall that he reminds him of the moon.

"Because you have this glow, Niall. I can't explain it, it's like the only source of light bright enough to relieve people from the darkness shines from within your heart. You're beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful."

Niall laughs and it's heavenly. He says, "You're not so bad yourself, Zayn." And then he slings his arm over Zayn's shoulder and pulls him into his side, and Zayn smiles as he knocks back his beer because not giving a fuck really is fun.

**

"You really like him, don't you?" Harry's question cuts through the action scene happening on the television and whips Zayn's head over to his.

"What?"

"You really like Niall, don't you?" Harry's been Zayn's best friend since they were eight. He's fun and a little bit crazy, but he's good in school. Zayn's mum says "he's got his head screwed on straight, unlike you".

Zayn could lie. He could tell Harry he didn't know what he was talking about, that he saw Niall as just a friend, but he's terrible at keeping secrets and Harry would find out sooner or later anyway.

So Zayn sighs and slams his head back against the armrest, closing his eyes. "Yeah." His voice doesn't waver like it should, doesn't falter or hitch. He can't just pass it off and say that he said it sarcastically.

Harry's quiet for a moment before his green eyes peer over at Zayn. "You should tell him."

"I can't just tell him that I may or may not want to fuck the life out of him every time he looks at me." Zayn rolls his eyes, throwing a (very well-aimed) pillow at Harry's head.

"Yeah you're right..."

Zayn isn't sure he wants him to agree.

"You should just try to fuck him instead."

Maybe Zayn did want him to agree. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Why not, if it works out, great, you get laid. If it doesn't... well then at least you tried, just pass it off as a drunken mistake!" Harry shrugs.

"Go to sleep, Harry."

Zayn lies awake in bed that night, thinking, because Harry has a slight point and he really should do something about Niall; take a chance. Rely on actions rather than words.

But he never does.

**

Zayn really isn't in the mood for maths, so he walks up those familiar stairs that smell like rain and pushes open the heavy black door; breathes in the clean air deeply. Niall is already up there- he always is; he has a lot of free periods. Zayn sits beside him like he normally does, swings his legs gently back and forth.

It's mid spring and the world is a bright mixture of colours; pink, blue, green, silver, purple, orange. It's beautiful and Zayn recognises all the shades of flowers blossoming and reaching for the sun, could paint them with his eyes closed.

Niall clears his throat and Zayn looks at him. He's just as bright as the earth; painted with white and yellow and blue and pink. Zayn waits for him to speak because he obviously wanted his attention, but Niall avoids his gaze and that's strange, causes Zayn to frown.

"You know..." There's something new in Niall's tone, something Zayn has never heard from him before. "Harry, he, uh... he kissed me. We, uh... we kissed and, uh, well then we fucked and we're sort of maybe... together?"

The cold air isn't refreshing anymore; it burns Zayn's nostrils and slices into his skin and disturbs his hair in ways he doesn't want it to. It steals his breath and stings his eyes and it hurts his lungs when he inhales it.

"I know this might be a lot to take in one go, but I need to tell you and I guess the best way is to just say it." He sighs and pulls a cigarette out, the flame flickering when he rolls his thumb against the clipper of the lighter, burning a dancing orange image into Zayn's retinas. "We're gonna go travelling together. He's always wanted to visit America, you probably already know, and I'd love to see Paris. We won't, uh, be here for graduation. We're leaving soon." Niall finally looks over at Zayn but Zayn looks away because Niall looks happy (with a slight shadow of guilt) and Zayn is hurting.

It's not so bright anymore, no so beautiful. Everything is just different shades of black, grey and white and there's nothing to really appreciate; nothing to paint or draw or admire.

Zayn stands up and brushes away the imaginary dirt from his trousers, and he thinks that maybe the burning in his throat is the feeling of betrayal, but he doesn't have an explanation for the searing pain ripping through his heart. "You know, I have a lot of homework to do, Niall."

"You never do you homework."

"Things change."

**

When Zayn walks into Mr Kershaw's office in the morning and slams down the pile of paper onto his desk, the old man doesn't ask. He looks at Zayn with questioning eyes but Zayn just shrugs.

"Can I graduate now?"

Mr Kershaw watches his carefully and his eyes are red and tired because he went home last night and got drunk again. "I guess you can."

With a nod, Zayn leaves, and this time he closes the door.

**

Zayn doesn't go to his lesson. He walks right out of school.

"Zayn!" The should comes from the roof and he doesn't need to look to know who it is; he's the only Irish in the school and the only other person who knows about the roof.  
Zayn doesn't look anyway. He jogs home and locks himself in his bedroom with his easel and pallet.

Cadmium yellow and cobalt blue illuminate the canvas, ivory white and pastel pink, crimson red and that billow of ash grey against the light sky. He comes to life with strokes of the paintbrush and when he's finished, Zayn sighs satisfactorily.

There's paint on his face, his clothes, his skin, but it's comforting, feels like home, so he falls into bed without washing it away.

**

Zayn graduates and forces the smile onto his face when they call his name. There's no roar of relief or pride or achievement, there's just this dull sort of ache, this emptiness, and he doesn't feel as though he's alive anymore. He feels like he's merely watching his life from the outside.

His mum looks proud of him for once, and he supposes that's something to be happy about. There's two faces missing in the crowd that should be there, should be graduating with him, but they're not.

When the ceremony is over, Zayn goes back to his old art classroom. His final assignment rests in the center of the room. Even in paint form, he lights up everything around him.

When somebody comes beside Zayn and throws their arm over his shoulder, he recoils in shock and stands in front of him, staring wide-eyed.

"I thought you were gone?"

Niall watches him for a second, trailing his eyes across his face. "We're leaving tomorrow. I couldn't go without saying goodbye to you." He swallows and the silence in the room is painful. "I'll miss you, Zayn. You really are one of the best fucking things to ever happen to me and I just want you to know that I love you. I love you so fucking much, and I know that you love me too, but you never took the chance, Zayn. You weren't brave. You were happy enough with what we had not to risk losing it all for something better. We're bad for each other, you and me. We're complete opposites and I know people say that opposites attract, but we destroy each other, Zayn. Cancel each other out, like a maths problem, I guess." The corner of Niall's mouth tips slightly in something that resembles a smile but isn't quite there yet, and Zayn doesn't really understand that one because, well, he never went to his maths classes. "Harry is better for me, and somebody else is better for you. I'll forget about you eventually, you'll forget about me, we'll get by without each other. We'll be alright."

Zayn nods because he doesn't really know what else to do. "I'll miss you but-" He swallows and breathes deeply, "but you deserve to be happy, Niall, so go and tell Harry that I said good luck and that I forgive him, no hard feelings, right? And- and go live your life with him. Be happy."

Niall pulls him into a hug and he still smells like cigaretes and coffee and Zayn still smells like paint and cold air, and they're still as broken and flawed as when they first met that day on the roof.

Something breaks away inside Zayn that moment and he thinks maybe it might be a piece of his heart, latching itself onto Niall in a final attempt at keeping him.

Niall leans back and uses his pale, long fingers to tilt Zayn's chin up, and Zayn closes his eyes. For the briefest moment, their lips touch and then Niall is gone taking the heat with him as Zayn watches him walk away for the last time.

And Zayn will never find that exact shade of cobalt blue again, never see cadmium yellow flowing that brightly, never discover ivory mixed with pastel pink as smooth as that, never find crimson red as enticing as that specific shade.

They were never his colours to cherish from the beginning, never his to play with or call his own. They were from another artist's pallet; Niall was another artist's masterpiece. He belonged to someone else.

When Zayn returns to the crowded hall, his mother kisses his cheeks and whispers "well done"s and "i knew you could do it"s into his ear and Mr Kershaw looks at him with something close to approval and Zayn laughs because he'd done the one thing he promised himself he'd never do; given everybody else what they wanted and lost the one thing he needed most.

**

Zayn stops painting. He goes to college and then he goes to university and he gets a job that he doesn't like and he doesn't fall in love. He doesn't really live because he has nothing to live for.


End file.
